


The Trust Issue

by Kadira



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-30
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kadira/pseuds/Kadira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" After his encounter with Moriarty, John can finally answer the question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" After his encounter with Moriarty, John can finally answer the question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story covers the end of TGG - spoilers for the first series, possible ACD canon quotes.

**Part 1.**

It is fascinating what people contemplate when they are mere seconds away from being blown to pieces.

Moriarty is standing in front of them, gaze fixed on Sherlock while Sherlock points the gun at the vest, a strange, almost happy smile on his face.

This life–or–death situation is something John is more familiar with than he cares to admit, but no matter how often he could have died in Afghanistan, it is nothing compared to this.

"Do you trust Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson?" Moriarty had sounded genuinely curious only hours ago, even as he had held John at gunpoint, forcing him to wrap himself in the explosives.

John has refused to answer, to take the bait, which had gained him an extra bit of explosive, attached by the criminal himself, right above his heart. "For Sherlock Holmes." Who knew that insane, criminal masterminds had a sense of poetry (even if it was a rather warped one)?

But while John can say with unshakable certainty that this event will never make it into his top 10 memories, it did remind him of another talk, even longer in the past, which here and now, in this situation, almost seems like a lifetime ago:

_"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"_

The memories of those words make John wish that he was back in that warehouse with Mycroft trying to be intimidating. Back then, John didn't know what to make out of those words, the not-quite question expressed in that honest-curious voice that both Holmes brothers could use on the rare occasions that they didn't get something. Then, John didn't care to think further about it either. After all, he had just met Sherlock Holmes, barely knew him a few hours, so the question was quite senseless as far as he was concerned. Never mind that he had been caught in a whirlwind of the most different feelings the moment Sherlock had entered his life. And how could he not?

_"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."_

There was certainly a healthy dose of curiosity involved already then (and who could blame John for that? That man had just read his entire life without John having said anything, and he was mostly right, too!)  
Fascination? Never ending!  
Infuriation? Definitely. One of Sherlock's special talents (nothing like leaving your new flatmate stranded somewhere in London).  
Amazement? Oh yes! Constantly and just as never-ending as the infuriation.

And then there was everything in-between. Emotions that developed over time and defied definition, but which have all become par of the course.

However, trust?

Maybe, John thinks, it was there already then. Some foundation that developed without it needing to be brought into existence first. A connection between two not entirely okay people, who just fit together, in all their brokenness (and John knows that they are not all right. Neither of them is). Maybe it is something that was just bound to happen.

John had certainly trust him enough to jump over roofs in the middle of the night to chase after some cabbie and that less than 48 hours after meeting Sherlock for the first time. In the same time span he had killed for Sherlock only to follow him then into the depths of yet another war and to get kidnapped and threatened with death for the first time. (well, actually, it had been the second kidnapping, but Mycroft's creative way of meeting John didn't really count!)

And trust or not that had made him do it, John has no regrets. He didn't have them then and he doesn't have them now. At least, thanks to Sherlock, he knows what it means to feel alive again.

Now, close to the end, John remembers Lestrade's words back then, during their first case:

_"And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."_

Seeing Sherlock now, closer to human than John has ever seen him before (yet at the same time larger than life), ready to put a stop to the criminal mastermind even at the cost of his own life, John knows that Lestrade is wrong. This here is the final proof for what John has already seen before, even when Sherlock rejected it. Sherlock doesn't need to become a good man because he already is; a modern day hero. It is one of the many reasons why John is here today.

Maybe John's reasoning is mad, but then again, so is Sherlock and so is John. And maybe that is why it works between them. Maybe that is why he understands Sherlock. Why he can see the good in him when everybody still hopes for it. And maybe that is also why he trusts Sherlock so blindly.

Trust. In the most unlikely person possible.

Sherlock shifts his focus from Moriarty and the explosives to John. Their eyes are locked for just the tiniest fraction. John sees the question in Sherlock's eyes, asking him if he's ready to follow his path, no matter where it will lead.

And John nods, trusting the other man once more blindly to do the right thing, ready to follow him even into the depth of hell and beyond.

***

Later, when John – much to his own surprise, because his last clear memory is of a terrible bang, heat and a highly uncomfortable burning in his shoulder (again! It's always his bloody shoulder!), followed by blissfully cool water that sweeps over him – opens his eyes, wincing at the light and the discomfort, he finds himself in a hospital bed, attached to a monitor. Not just a monitor, but there's also a needle in the back of his hand, which in return is connected to a cannula and a tube, leading to a bottle with a clear solution.

After taking stock of himself, John decides that he has either been very lucky or that the solution is something to fight the pain for he feels completely fine. Not that he cares much either way what the reason for his pain-free state is as long as the result is agreeable, which it is. Right now, his main concern is finding Sherlock and to see how he is doing. And by God, he hopes that the world's only consulting detective is fine as well!

John ignores the feeling of dread and coldness at the thought that he may not be fine, refuses to let it settle in his stomach and to infest him further as he comes to his feet, mindful of the moving ground – or rather his own unsteadiness. He has just succeeded in detaching himself from the monitor, switching it off in the progress, and is just busy freeing himself from the infusion when the door opens.

"Is that the bravery of the soldier again, or what exactly are you trying to achieve, Doctor?" comes the question, voice familiar soft. Mycroft is standing in the doorframe, watching John with curious detachment. John can't say that he is surprised to see him. "I'm by no means a medical man, but I would think that there is a certain necessity to your arrangement here, especially seeing that you happened to be in the middle of a mysterious explosion."

"Well, I _am_ a medical man and I am pretty sure that I feel fine," John says, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He suppresses the wince as the needle finally comes lose, rubs the back of his hand to ease the sting. "Where's Sherlock?" he asks, trying to keep his voice calm, but he has no doubt that Mycroft – like Sherlock, always so perceptive when it comes to such things, especially when one tries to hide it from them – can hear the urgency behind the words, the desperation in his voice that please, everything should be fine with Sherlock.

Mycroft observes him for the fraction of a second, which turns into an eternity for John before he finally shakes his head ever so slightly. "He is fine. More than that. He should be pestering the doctor for either an Internet connection or at least to be released. You don't need to go after him. He will, without a doubt, turn up here the moment he hears that you are awake. So, please sit down and relax, John. We want to ensure that you are fine, after all, when Sherlock comes back. And you do look a tad pale."

"That's great!" John says, not even trying to hide his relief at the news about Sherlock's wellbeing.

"How is your shoulder, John?" Mycroft asks, sitting pointedly down in the chair, which stands – rather inconveniently as far as John is concerned – between John and the door, most likely tying to ensure that John will listen to Mycroft and not run off, rushing after his brother. John would like to deny that possibility, because he is supposed to be the sensible one in their partnership, but lying – even just to himself – is not something he does. Of course he would go after Sherlock, even if it were just to make sure that he is indeed all right. John is his doctor after all!

"It's fine," John says, then, to prove a point, moves it – and winces. Maybe not quite all right after all. But he is alive. They both are. And that is all that matters in the end.

"Are you going to tell me what exactly happened while we wait for Sherlock?"

“Shouldn't you know?" John asks. "I thought you'd know everything with you being the British Government, having the power over security cameras and all that."

Mycroft's gaze narrows for a moment, the only sign of, well, probably not annoyance - he probably never gets really annoyed (maybe he should ask Sherlock about that at some point) - so it is probably just displeasure. Or impatience.

"Regretfully, my brother – and so you – is quite good at vanishing from my radar, if he wishes for it."

John feels a grin turning up. He tries to suppress it for a second, then gives up. "So, you are saying that we gave you the slip?"

"So it appears," Mycroft says and even through the mask of indifference the older Holmes insists on wearing, John can see that he is less than pleased. "So, what happened?"

John on the other hand is delighted. At least until he tries to wave off Mycroft and the pain in his shoulder reminds him of the recent events. "You should ask, Sherlock," John says, nursing his arm.

"So far, he only told us that we are looking for one Jim Moriarty, who, as I understand it, is the one responsible for your being here." There is a flash of... something in Mycroft's eyes, of something new, which John has never seen before, certainly not in combination with the always so very controlled and composed Mycroft Holmes. It is also something that doesn't promise anything good. John is very certain about that.

Right now, John is certainly very grateful that the unsettling mix of emotions isn't directed at him, because as far as intimidating goes, this works much better than the dramatic set-up of their first meeting. Now, Mycroft is actually scary.

And John recognizes the burst of emotions for what it is, too. There is no denying that Mycroft does care about his little brother (not that John ever really doubted it) and that he would go any length to protect him, no matter their usual banter or childish feuds, or that Sherlock can be a jerk and a bloody nuisance.

John forces himself to hold the murderous gaze, not to show just how much Mycroft's reaction unsettles him. Instead he nods. "He is. He is also one of the most ruthless criminals out there," he adds, thinking about the poor, blind old lady, Soo Lin, the blown up building, and all the other dead people in Moriarty's path, the way he was so willing to use the children in his game and to kill the two of them.

Mycroft nods and John can see the immense amount of self-control it takes him to hold reign over his emotions. John is rather glad that his name isn't Moriarty and that he didn't just try to kill Sherlock. Actually, John is just very happy that neither Sherlock nor Mycroft are his enemies.

But then Mycroft flashes his Mycroft-smile (really, there is no other description for it. Nobody smiles like Sherlock's brother) at John and John sees the murderous gleam fading. Not vanishing, but fading. For now. "We will talk about the rest later. So you have chosen your side, John. How does it feel to walk the battlefield once more?"

John is pretty sure that it is a rhetorical question, which doesn't need an answer. Instead he says: "Do you remember what you asked me back then, in the warehouse, during our first meeting? The trust issue?"

Mycroft's eyebrows knit together as he tries to recall what happened then (which to him was probably more than just a few lifetimes ago, a tiny, insignificant incident between the Korean elections and trying to keep track on them and/or to cause a war – if he believes Sherlock's not really unbiased opinion of his brother). When Mycroft nods, John says, "I trust Sherlock. With my life," voice firm and gaze steady.

"I know."

Just those two words. John starts to suspect that Mycroft has probably known right from the beginning, even before John got a chance to think after being subjected to the unstoppable force that is Sherlock. Still… "You know?"

"Of course I know, John," Mycroft says, sighing as if that is the most obvious thing in the world and only an idiot wouldn't know – which John is, at least compared to Mycroft and Sherlock (just like everybody). "I knew it right from the beginning, after our first talk, in fact."

"How could you possibly— ah, never mind," John then stops before he can finish the question. There is no sense to it anyway. It is one of the many things he has learned about the Holmes brothers during the last few months. He's also sure that there are plenty of things about them, which he doesn't even want to know.

But Mycroft explains anyway: "Sometimes you just know such things, John. And I assure you, if I would have had the feeling that you would be bad for my brother, we wouldn't have this conversation now."

John feels the hair on his neck raising. Hardened soldier or not, right now, he doesn't feel like a match for the other man. He rarely does, but today even less. Danger. There's plenty of that hidden in the lean body, behind the facade of the gentlemen that Mycroft has cultivated so well. For all his restraint and calmness, behind that gentleman-ness, he's at least as dangerous as Sherlock, maybe even more so. John has no doubt that they are both much more dangerous than John, who is supposed to be the one with the gun here, the government-sanctioned killer. But, like Sherlock, Mycroft plays in an entirely different league than John.

And for all their obvious differences, there's plenty of resemblance between the brothers, even apart from their brilliant minds. It's fascinating and scary at once, especially being that close to one or both of them. It makes John feel like the moth and the flame. He's ready to burn, probably even happily so, because he yearns for everything Sherlock offers, the excitement, the adventure, the danger. It is like Sherlock said in the beginning: _"And I said danger, yet here you are."_ Sherlock knows, John knows and there is no doubt that Mycroft knows is as well.

So he's here, returned to the battlefield, playing moth to some of the most intriguing and burning brains possible, ready to go up into flames at a moment's notice. And while John doesn't particularly care about dying, and, in fact, would rather survive to experience a few more adventures, he is still ready to embrace that part of his life as well.

Mycroft comes to his feet in one fluid motion and turns towards the door. After two steps however, he turns around to John once more. "Another indication for your – quite unexpected I have to admit - closeness is that you are also the only one he ever introduced as a friend, John. To anyone. My little brother doesn't even know what friendship could mean. It's not... our field of expertise. Yet, you are the exception. Apparently for many things. You are good for each other. Anyone can see that. And you keep my brother busy and stop him from pestering me. It's a nice side effect. So, please stay the way you are and keep his interest, Dr Watson," Mycroft ends, smiling brightly.

"What?" John blinks, tries to progress the unexpected statement, but before he can really get anywhere, much less ask any more questions, the door opens and Sherlock strides into the room.

"Ah, John! You are finally awake! Good, because we have a lot of things to do and already wasted enough time! Time to get started! Mycroft! Still here? Don't you have... I don't know – go and catch a criminal, lose some state secrets, start a war… whatever it is you usually waste your days with?" John is still starring at the other man in amazement when Mycroft leaves the room without reacting in any way to Sherlock's statement (which is the wisest thing to do, really), closing the door behind him.

Sherlock positively vibrates with energy, even more than usually already, with no indication that some genius - and very mad - criminal tried to blow them to pieces just the day before as he skips through the spacious room (must be a private hospital) and finally stops near the window. "How's your arm doing? Fine, I trust? Well, it should be anyway. Soon. It just needs some rest and Harry will make sure that you will get it."

Between Mycroft and Sherlock and the last few hours, John starts to feel like getting a glimpse of the infamous wonderland. It's surreal and wonderful and promises so much. There's only the problem that he keeps lagging behind, doomed to never really catch more than a glimpse of the white rabbit. "Harry? I am not sure I follow you. What has my sister to do with anything?"

"Harry is expecting you for dinner. I already made sure that you are packed and told Mrs Hudson to send your stuff ahead."

John looks at him for a moment, stunned, then shakes his head in disbelief. "Are you trying to get rid off me?"

Sherlock looks at John with something akin to impatience, which, to John at least, seems rather uncalled-for. Before he can say something however, Sherlock starts: "In case you haven't noticed, you almost _died_ , John. Moriarty proved that he is not beyond using the people around me to get to me. You will be much safer with your sister. And I should be able to focus better on the case and thus catching our dear Professor much faster."

"So, you are trying to send me away because you are worried about me," John asks, amazed and confused at once. Sherlock, who rarely shows emotions, worried about _him_?

"It is distracting me when I have to make sure that nothing happens to you."

Definitely time to put a stop to Sherlock's latest madness and that before it can grow any further. John can deal (most of time at least) with the various experiences in their flat, without sleep, with being awoken by the violin in the middle of the night, chasing around London and jumping from roof to roof. He doesn't even mind (too much) being nearly killed once in a while, but this is just too much. Even for him. "I am a soldier, Sherlock. I know how to protect myself, especially now that I know about the danger. I am certainly not going to leave."

When Sherlock doesn't answer, instead pays intense attention to his mobile, John shakes his head. "I am not going anywhere, Sherlock. As you pointed out, Moriarty used me to get to you. He doesn't care about me. I will be as safe here as anywhere else, probably safer. And Harry, too."

When Sherlock opens his mouth to finally say something, John shakes his head, effectively shutting him up before he can even get a word out. He did have his chance. Too late now, certainly for objections. John is not somebody who strolls after the genius like some faithful pet. Well, maybe he does, sometimes, during cases, but that is still something different! He still has his own mind and own ideas, even when it comes to Sherlock! "If you really think that I am going to leave you alone with that, then you are maybe not quite as much of a genius as you like to make everybody believe. And that is the last I will say about that," he says, voice firm.

For a moment their eyes are locked, Sherlock's gaze unreadable, John's determined (he hopes). "I want you out of the picture, John, safe," Sherlock says, tries once more, and there's a nuance in his voice, which John is tempted to read as apprehension. "You almost died once. Isn't that enough, even for you?" And it's the combination of tone and words, which is almost John's undoing, which almost make him agree to whatever Sherlock wants.

John still shakes his head. "Nah, that was at least the second time. Don't forget Black Lotus. Or the Golem. I got the feeling that he was quite set on killing both of us once we caught up with him. That makes it three times. Or the frequent heart attacks you tend to give me when you store a head in the fridge. Or other body parts, like the fingers in our coffee box, or the eyes in my soup. And that is just since I got to know you. There were a few other times, before we ever met, that I nearly got killed. So it's not really something new for me."

The list sounds quite insane and every normal person would probably be far away by now, but John is not normal and he doesn't care. He thrives on the danger, something they both know too well.

_~ It could be dangerous – SH ~_

It makes him feel alive, complete. Especially with Sherlock at his side. It is something that John hasn't expected when he met up with one Sherlock Holmes first at 221B Baker Street. There are not many men you would want at your side (especially not outside of war) if you want to face death, but Sherlock is one of them as John had plenty of time to discover and not to regret. And Sherlock not only knows but is probably the only one who can understand it. With Sherlock at his side, John is burning with life. The other man may frustrate him and be a bloody pain more often than not, but that doesn't change the fact that John wants to be with him, life threatening danger and everything.

There is the faint trace of a smile on Sherlock's face. "You are getting better at the only-being-nearly-killed," Sherlock says and the trace deepens. John's stomach flutters by the knowledge that he is the only one who is privileged to see this special smile. It's not of triumph, or annoyance, not one of those that promises pain and death, which Sherlock has perfected, but it is just Sherlock, smiling a real smile. "But you won't get better at being dead once you are dead," Sherlock adds, voice and gaze serious again.

"Probably not. But I almost died so often already, I think I am getting quite good at the _almost_ -bit." John says, shrugging. "It's better than being not-good at the rest, like dying."

Sherlock grins and John feels warm and fuzzy. He still isn't sure what it is he feels for the other man, but it doesn't matter as long as they are both here and he can feel it. "And people tell me that I am impossible, a freak and a nuisance."

"Maybe you are rubbing off on me," John says, unable to hide his grin. "You may be brilliant, but even a genius needs someone to back him up, Sherlock. And seeing that I am the only one who has been living with you and has _not_ threatened to kill you yet, I should probably be the one. I _want_ to be the one. And God knows, I want to be there when you bring Moriarty down."

"Not yet threatened to kill me, mh?"

"Not yet," John confirms, smiling.

And then, before John even gets a chance to say anything more, Sherlock is in front of John. Not just in front of him, which would hardly be anything new, seeing that he has no sense for useless stuff like privacy or personal space, but _really_ close. So close in front of him in fact, that John can feel the heat he radiates. It threatens the edges of his sanity, urged him on, not to flee, but to lean into it if he wants to burn. Before John can get his wits together, or at least his body to obey his instincts, the flame is on him, burning him. It's soft and hungry and devouring and all John can do is cling to Sherlock and to respond in kind as his lips meet Sherlock's own.

Sherlock's arm wraps around John, pulling him close, his other hand in John's hair as if wanting to make sure that John won't go anywhere. Not that John has any plans to be anywhere else, never again, now even less than before. His hands mirror Sherlock's action as their tongues entangle. John's senses are overflowing with impressions of taste and feel and _being_ , of drowning and living and just… _Sherlock_!

It's with the unleashed passion surrounding him, the burning hunger racing through him, setting his most inner self on fire, the feeling of the soft lips and demanding tongue that John knows just why he has survived all the different wars he has fought in his life. He knows why there never has been a different option, and why he would continue to survive now. This is something he has been waiting for even before Afghanistan, even if he hadn't known then that it exists or what it really was that he was looking for. But he knows now and the pieces fall into place, forming one wonderful picture of fire and life and everything in-between and beyond, the things that he can't put into words. Yet.

When they – very regretfully – break apart, there is none of the dreaded awkward silence that John usually fears in such moments and which he thought would be inevitable here and now (not that he ever _really_ thought so far, not with Sherlock, not after what he had told John in the beginning, his non-interest), but instead it just is, like some logical new level that they have been closing in on. In fact, for all the emotions, the passion, that had threatened to burn them only moments ago, Sherlock is amazingly enough pretty much matter-of-fact now, even with them still standing that close together, still kind of embracing each other. But maybe, John thinks, it is this, which makes the moment not awkward, but normal.

"You do realize that this is not only a stupid idea, but easily the worst ever? We should stop right now and just forget that it ever happened," Sherlock says, straightening up, but without letting John go. It is words against action and vice versa, something not quite like the other man. John is rather grateful for the dissonance between both, for he doesn’t know what he would do if Sherlock would act according to his words. Maybe scream for frustration. Well, probably not, but John is rather glad that he doesn't need to think about it further.

"You certainly know how to kill the mood," he says instead. He doesn't want to think about what is right and wrong, or if it is a stupid or an even worse idea. Not now, not with both of them having survived Moriarty's madness and them being here now, in this situation.

"I will probably kill you."

John shakes his head. "I honestly doubt that."

"It almost happened already," Sherlock says and John finds himself pulled closer against the other man.

" _Moriarty_ tried to kill _us_. It was not you trying to kill me."

"It might just as well have been. He came after you because of me. And he is not the only enemy that I have. Next time you let yourself get kidnapped it could—"

"I hardly let myself be kidnapped," John interrupts him. "I may not be as brilliant as some people here, but I'm not that stupid or incapable either." It's just a minor point, but it needs to be mentioned.

"Mycroft kidnapped you," Sherlock says. John smiles as he can make out the hint of a smirk on Sherlock's features.

"Give me some credit. That was in the beginning," John protests and he finds himself leaning against Sherlock, relishing the closeness. Through the thin layers of hospital clothing, John can feel Sherlock's rapidly beating heart against his own body. "Moriarty didn't exactly invite me to come along for a ride. Even you would have had a few problems holding up against three guys." But at least they got their share, too, even if they managed to overpower John in the end!

"But there will be other, maybe worse, people out there. I am worse. I will hurt you and eventually get you killed. That is just the nature of things."

"People worse than Mycroft?" John asks, ignoring the rest. Brilliant or not, sometimes Sherlock was a true master of talking nonsense – like now.

Sherlock laughs at that. It is a rare, pleasant sound, which John cherishes. "I am not so sure about that. As I told you in the beginning, he is likely the most dangerous man you are ever going to meet. Fortunately, we have not reached the stage yet where we want to kill each other, so you should be quite safe, at least from him," Sherlock says, smirking.

John agrees, but he has no doubt that Mycroft is out for blood. Fortunately it is not theirs. And he is pretty sure that for all their differences and childish banter, it would be the same the other way around, if Mycroft would be the one who gets hurt, even if Sherlock would never willingly admit it.

"Did I ever tell you that you left quite the impression on Mycroft during your first meeting?" Sherlock asks. "He told me so later. Apparently you were so exasperating that he decided that we would deserve each other."

"He did? That was most likely just because I refused to feel intimidated by him..." This was probably a mistake going with the side Mycroft Holmes has shown him this evening. He is dangerous. Maybe really more than Moriarty. John can almost believe it now. "But I'm not afraid. Not of your brother and not of Moriarty," he says, raising his head, locking eyes with Sherlock. The blue eyes burn with an intensity, which - John has learned by now – Sherlock usually only displays when he's on a hot trail, or when he (in rarer moments) feels strong emotional investment.

"Then you are stupid."

"Probably, yes," John agrees. "But that doesn't change anything. Let it be a stupid idea. According to you, I am an idiot anyway, so at least I have an excuse for being stupid and here now. What is yours?" John asks.

Sherlock looks appropriately put off, apparently caught in one of those rare moments where he is so taken aback that the retort doesn't present itself to him. John grins brightly, then leans forward, kissing him. Sherlock reacts right away and there is energy, lots of it, all transformed into passion, when he responds to John, who feels himself crashing against the other man when Sherlock pulls him close once more. "You are," he finally says. "Until you showed up, I was perfectly content with not feeling this way for anybody, not worrying about anything, just doing my job. So you are my excuse."

"We should thank Mike then at some point," John says, moving just far enough away that he can meet Sherlock's gaze again.

The other man nods. Then, quite out of the blue: "He can't burn my heart out of me. I will make sure about that." Sherlock's voice is filled with heat and John discovers that his breathing is not quite as steady anymore.

And suddenly John understands. Understands what Moriarty meant then, understands Sherlock's responding silence, his gaze when his eyes fell on John and he realized what was going on, what Moriarty had done to them.

They are looking at each other in some kind of silent understanding that John can't explain. He doesn't want to either. It is too special to be pressed into words. And then there is no chance for more words anyway, because the door opens. But even then, there's no hurried breaking apart. There is no need for it, because it is Mycroft and there is nothing that Mycroft doesn't know already anyway.

"Much as I hate to disturb your newfound understanding, but the police has called. Lestrade _demands_ to see you." Mycroft doesn't look weirded out, worried, or even curious. If anything, he looks rather satisfied, almost like a cat that finally caught the mouse. "I tried to keep him away, but this is getting rather boring," he says and the resemblance between the brothers is distinctive again.

"Tell him, we will be over later." When Mycroft raises an eyebrow, Sherlock adds a sullen " _Please_ , Mycroft."

"If I do that for you, you will tell me about Jim Moriarty?"

John can feel the hesitation in Sherlock. It is his case. On the other hand, Moriarty just tried to kill them and he is the head of the criminal class in London, probably even beyond that and maybe he will need Mycroft's help at some point. Not likely, but maybe. John can feel the wheels in his brain moving, turning at an inhuman speed as Sherlock calculates the pros and cons.

In the end, he shrugs. "You have until the doctor is back and we can finally leave," he tells Mycroft who accepts the statement with a barely visible nod, probably just glad that he does get something out of Sherlock after all. Sherlock finally (and not without regret) releases John and walks around the room as he starts talking: "He is a genius. At least as good as I am. As we are," he amends with a side-glance at his brother. "Dangerous, brilliant."

"Just like our evil twin then." Mycroft sounds doubtful. Maybe he can't imagine that there is someone else like them. More important: someone who is like them, but not part of their little world. And who can blame him? They are such rarity, meeting another one of them must be something new for them, something fresh and exciting (which certainly explained Sherlock’s reaction when he had first found out about Moriarty). Maybe it's also something scary. The world is barely big enough for the two of them after all.

"Of course not. He is great, no doubt, but he does make mistakes. For one—"

John certainly knows that he didn't even know that someone like them could exists before meeting Sherlock and he thinks that he can probably be very glad that the brothers are not that close. Each of them is already a force to reckon with, but to have to deal with both of them at the same time, on a more than irregularly basis, would probably kill John, even without any other enemies – brilliant or not – in the picture. Fire and ice, yet, the way they bounce of ideas now and discuss the matter in such a business-like way they are so very much alike, too.

Dangerous, brilliant and utterly fascinating.

But despite that John knows about the danger – and not only from possible enemies – he is glad to be here and he doubts that even the real risk of death will be able to change that. Actually, after today he is pretty certain that he is exactly where he is meant to be and where he wants to be.

-.-.-.-


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of 'The Final Problem'/'Reichenbach Falls' John tries his best not to deal, Mycroft tries to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story deals with the aftermath of 'Reichenbach Falls'/'The Final Problem' - spoilers for the first series, some ACD canon references

**Part 2.**  
  
Maybe, John thinks later, he would rather have missed out on that day in the hospital if he had known the outcome. Maybe he would have agreed to visit Harry if he had known about the heartbreak and the dark abyss that would follow so soon. Or maybe, even further back, would have told Mike Stamford that he wasn't interested in a roommate after all.  
  
Or perhaps not. In fact, when John can bring himself to look beyond the pain, he is very sure that he wouldn't have done anything to change the outcome of that day.  
  
However, maybe he would have followed Sherlock down the abyss after all.  
  
But John is a survivor, a fighter. He keeps surviving, no matter what happens, even when all odds are against it. It is the way it always has been. Afghanistan had just confirmed it. One bullet, nightmares, but unlike so many others, he survived all that and returned home. More than that, he survived all that with his sanity intact. Mostly at least. But in this case, John is very sure that his own death would have been preferable (certainly not as much of a loss as Sherlock's!). It would certainly have been easier than staying behind and to die day after day anew, for days, weeks, months without end, hours blending together in one dark mix of existing.  
  
When John returns home after an unplanned double shift in the hospital – ("Could you maybe, John? I know that it is short-notice, but my little one is sick and..." Of course John could. He always can. Working is good, especially the exhaustion after a hard day, which usually prevents John from thinking too many dark thoughts) – he almost runs into Mycroft Holmes in front of his apartment.  
  
John had last seen Mycroft at Sherlock's funeral. They hadn't talked then, John thinks, but he can't be entirely sure. Most of what happened in the horrible few seconds when Sherlock fell to his death and the time since… long after the funeral had passed in a special haze. In many ways it was like after his return from Afghanistan, with John there, but not really connected to the world.  
  
But now Mycroft is here, standing beside the car, his assistant beside him, typing furiously on her mobile, like she always does, as if nothing has changed at all.  
  
"It has been a long time, John," Mycroft says, voice of the typical softness, which is so much like him. Where Sherlock burned you with his fire, Mycroft would smother you with a cutting softness that can turn to ice instantly. John suppresses the thought, especially the one about Sherlock (which is pretty much impossible with Mycroft standing right in front of him, but he has to keep trying at least - for his own sake).  
  
John nods at him. "Mycroft. What do you want?"  
  
"Is that the way to greet me after such a long time?" A slight, barely visible smile plays around Mycroft's lips.  
  
"How the hell did you find me?" John asks, but there is not much fire behind the words. If he has learned one thing about Mycroft during the last two years, it is to always expect the unexpected. He would find you and show up whenever it pleased him.  
  
"Oh, I have a few connections as you know...," Mycroft explains, smiling disarmingly - in the same way a poisonous spider would appear harmless before jumping it's unsuspecting victim.  
  
Not that John is unsuspecting. "And what do you want?" he asks warily. Mycroft rarely turns up without wanting something. That is something John remembers only too well.  
  
"Don't you want to invite me in? It looks quite... charming," Mycroft says, pointing at the small house behind him. John has to admit that Mycroft is quite good at hiding the revulsion he must feel.  
  
John snorts. It's the closest he has come to a laugh for the past months. It sounds rough and unfinished, but it is there. "Is there anything I can do that will make you go away?"  
  
Mycroft smiles brightly. "No."  
  
"Well, then come in, I suppose," John says, leading the way on into the one-room apartment (plus a tiny bathroom and an even tinier kitchen!) at the top, which looks as bare and empty and unfeeling as the one he had occupied _then_ , a lifetime ago, before Sherlock had jumped into his life. It's a different street and a different house, but the same old song. A non-home for a non-real-life.  
  
"Why did you move out of Baker Street?" Mycroft asks, following John up the stairs. The rhythmic clacking of his umbrella on the bare wooden steps cuts through the catatonic, almost suffocating silence that characterises the house usually. "You should have stayed there."  
  
"It really is a family trade, isn't it? Look, some things just aren't possible, no matter how obvious they may seem to you." Mycroft may not be quite as hopeless as Sherlock, but he certainly is not all that good either when it comes to things like human emotions. It's not that the brothers are emotionless – no matter how much they like to pretend and no matter how easily other people fall for it. Quite the contrary. John has seen – and experienced – that they can be, in fact, highly emotional. It's just that they seem to tick slightly out of tune compared to the rest of humanity. And they certainly do their best to never openly display possible feelings.  
  
Mycroft looks at him, obviously confused. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Emotions. It's something we less brilliant human beings have to deal with everyday," John says, then sighs. "I just couldn't stay there," he simply explains then, unlocking the door and leading the way into his flat. "Tea?"  
  
Mycroft nods, eyebrows knit together as if thinking, probably not about tea, though. "Tea is good," he still says and follows John into the tiny kitchen. He stands in the doorframe and observes John filling the electric kettle. "But why living here? You are working as a doctor," Mycroft says, showing that he has done his job - again. Or maybe he has never let John out of his sight to start with. Both would be entirely possible. Though, why Mycroft should still maintain an interest in him after Sherlock's death is beyond John.  
  
John shrugs. "Not as one of those who earn obscene amounts of money." He fills the boiling water into the cups. Two pieces of sugar and milk for himself, one piece of sugar and a sip of milk for Mycroft – the later he still knows thanks to the memories of other times, other visits and another kitchen.  
  
"But you could. You are good. Sherlock was quite insistent on that."  
  
John forces himself to a pained smile at the compliment. "Yeah, but that would not be me. And it's enough for me. I don't need anything more. So, what do you want, Mycroft?" he asks and gives him the steaming cup. "Not that I don't appreciate your being here, but it seems a bit weird, you have to admit. And I'm neither in the mood to pose for one of your experiments–  
  
 _~ been there done that, and it was something entirely different with Sherlock following and analyzing his every step ~_  
  
—nor am I in the mood for a trip down memory lane." Not here, not now, and not with Mycroft who can read him as easily as an open book, who, like his brother, can probably tell even before John what he is thinking and feeling. John is not up for it. Evasion and ignoring is something John has become quite good at and he has no desire to change that. In fact, the only thing where he excels even more is the non-dying bit.  
  
Highly unfortunately sometimes.  
  
"I was worried about you, John. Everybody is," Mycroft explains in that soft voice, which can be either comforting or chilling, cutting effectively into John's thoughts. He takes another step into the kitchen, closing in on John. Like Sherlock, he doesn't have any regard for personal space, certainly not when it doesn't suit him.  
  
John wonders for a brief moment who _everybody_ is supposed to be, then shakes his head. "Not that I don't appreciate it, but I'm still alive as you can see. There's nothing to worry about. But you have other ways to find out about something like that, so there's no need for such a visit. So why are you really here?"  
  
Mycroft smiles brightly. "Whatever you feel most comfortable believing, John. But there is indeed another reason for my being here. I have a case."  
  
"A case?" John asks, freezing in his motions.  
  
"That is what I said." The same note of barely audible impatience in his voice, that is... was Sherlock's trademark, too.  
  
 _Don't think. Don't think. Don't think_. Not about Sherlock. Even after the past months, the pain is still too raw, too big, especially with Mycroft here, a living reminder of what John has lost. John suppresses the wave of pain, locks it up again and pulls himself together once more.  
  
"You are kidding, right? Why the bloody hell would you come to me then? Go to the police. DI Lestrade is there and unlike what...," John halts for a moment. "Unlike what Sherlock said, Lestrade is not a complete moron." Something Sherlock knew as well, even if he would never have admitted it aloud. Of all the idiots that have surrounded Sherlock, he had always considered Lestrade a slightly lesser one.  
  
"I’m aware of that, John, but Gregory Lestrade won't do in this case. It's a delicate matter. Of national importance, in fact, and could cause more than just a bit of embarrassment for some people in higher circles. So I need somebody who can be discrete and who is not restricted by police procedures."  
  
"Oh, don't tell me you lost documents again!" John's mind is racing, going through the past few days of newspaper headlines, but he can't recall any fresh incident. Not that it means much, not with somebody like Mycroft being in his position. In a different situation Mycroft's momentary expression by that statement may have amused John, but the circumstances are too weird as that he could appreciate it. "And you want for _me_ to find them?"  
  
"You have been working with my brother for a long time, John. You should be able to make heads and tails of it. And you know how much I hate legwork, so I can hardly deal with that myself, even if I had time," he tells John, gracing him with his brightest Mycroft-smile, which could be an invitation for anyone to run off as far as possible. "I have faith that you'll find the papers, John. Here's a documentation of everything that happened and what we could conclude," he says, putting a leather-bound case on the kitchen countertop.  
  
"I have no doubt that I will see you again very soon with the first results, John. I am very glad that you will deal with our little problem," he adds and then he is gone, just like that, leaving a completely bewildered John behind.  
  
***  
  
After John gets over the first confusion and puts his thoughts into it, the case takes up. In the end, he solves the matter within two weeks. He can't help but think that Sherlock would have solved it in two days – at most. It has been rather obvious, looking back now. Just some plain, old blackmailing and a threatened exposure, which most certainly would have ended in political suicide. Nothing really special.  
  
 _Dull, boring, not worth my time_ , he can hear Sherlock in his mind, loud and clear and painful. John shuts him out. It becomes rather easy over time, so that he can at least have the pretence of living a semi-normal life, of existing.  
  
Mycroft and his annoying frequent appearances do help with that as well, John has to admit. At first it seems that not a month passes without Mycroft turning up, later every other week, followed fast by weekly (while not necessarily unwelcome, certainly uninvited) visits. In the end, he shows up even without Anthea (or whatever she calls herself these days) or the pretence of having a case that needs to be solved (and let's face it, not even their Secret Service is that incompetent that Mycroft can have weekly problems to solve).  
  
These visits puzzle John. He doesn't understand or can imagine what Mycroft's possible interest in him could be. But despite that and despite that he is so very cautious (Mycroft is the most dangerous man, he is likely to meet after all. John has neither forgotten Sherlock's words, nor the kidnapping, nor the way Mycroft was in the hospital after the explosion) he finds himself eventually and very gradually relaxing in Mycroft's presence. At some point John discovers that he is actually checking date and time, because he is looking forward to dinner with him.  
  
He enjoys talking and listening to Mycroft. In fact, John is amazed at how easy it is to be with him. Or maybe Mycroft just makes it easy for John, but that doesn't change the outcome. It is _nice_ to be with Mycroft. It makes John feel at peace, almost happy. In short, after the first (admittedly, rather long-lasting) discomfort, he finds himself enjoying spending time with Mycroft, no matter if at home (though he does seem too large for John's small apartment), dinner, the theatre or just walking through the city. No chases, just walking, which is not too bad seeing how much Mycroft hates to walk and that he does it only for John.  
  
Still, there is the one nagging question, the _why_ , that burns in John, brighter as time passes, demanding an answer with increasing urgency.  
  
And half a year after Mycroft jumped into John's life again, almost a year after John's world started to disintegrate around him, he asks the other man. They are on their way to the cinema, walking, because John enjoys the feeling of the asphalt under his feet and to merge with the pulsating city (though, it still amazes him how London can just go on living when such an integral part has been removed with Sherlock's death!).  
  
"What would your preferred answer be?" Mycroft asks after a moment instead of answering.  
  
"How about the truth?" John says, voice firm. He needs to know, even if it is just pity or whatever else.  
  
"Maybe I just enjoy your company?"  
  
John laughs. It sounds nervous. "I wanted the truth."  
  
Mycroft stops two blocks away from the cinema, looking at John. "It is the truth, John. Why is it that difficult to believe that you may interest me? You are the only person my brother could ever tolerate around him and the only one who could hold his interest. More than that, you are the only one who did not run away as fast as possible after getting to know him. In fact, you are the only one he considered a friend and more. Of course you would interest me as well. Everything that—"  
  
"Because everything that is of interest to Sherlock is of interest to you?" John summarizes their first conversation.  
  
"Possibly. In the beginning," Mycroft admits. "But that has changed quite some time ago already. When I first visited you, I was really worried for you. The rest... developed," he explains.  
  
"The rest?"  
  
Mycroft laughs. It is a pleasant sound. "Oh, John. Don't tell me that you don't know? That you can not feel it?"  
  
And with that Mycroft closes in, takes the last two steps until he is standing right in front of John. John doesn't move, doesn't even dare to breath when Mycroft's hand reaches out, caressing his face. John feels his heartbeat take up, doubling, at least, as he, without really realizing it, leans into the warm touch. His eyes are locked with Mycroft's and John realizes once more that they are of almost the same shade as Sherlock's, yet different enough not to be mistaken. Mycroft's gaze is less driven, more settled, if still intense.  
  
John feels himself shivering under the stare.  
  
Then Mycroft leans forward, closing the last bit that still separates them and John's stomach begins to flutter.  
  
It is a careful kiss, not overwhelming or demanding, just there, warm and comforting and nice – if all kinds of wrong, no matter how good it feels and no matter that John may even lean into the caress, answering and asking for more.  
  
"I love your brother," is the first thing John says when they break apart. It's rather unromantic, he realizes, but it needs to be said and it needs to be said _now_. Hell, John is even unable to voice that statement in past tense. It would be wrong, too, because he still loves Sherlock, as much as it hurts, and he doesn't believe that it will ever change either. "And I miss him." There is a note of finality in his not entirely firm voice and he even takes a tiny step back, tries to put at least some space between the unspoken offering, his memories and his torn emotions and yearnings.  
  
"I know," Mycroft says, voice soft, holding John's gaze, hand still on John's cheek, caressing. "So do I. I would never expect anything else. And we have all the time in the world, John. I can wait."  
  
***  
  
One year later, the arms that anchor John during the night, holding him through his nightmares, are not the ones he remembers and loves, but different ones. It's a different kind of warmth, a different kind of embrace, different in all possible ways from what he still remembers so very vividly.  
  
Still, John finds himself arching and moving against the other man, hands clutching the shoulders (not enough hair to entangle in!) and calling out his name as warmth spreads through his body and lust and relief make thinking impossible.  
  
Later, he cries silently. It is – of course – not planned, but it is not nearly as mortifying as John has imagined that it could be. Quite the contrary. Mycroft knows. He knows about Sherlock, about what happened and what he still means to John. He has been there right from the beginning, has predicted the development months before anything had even happened between Sherlock and John. And Mycroft knows – even though they'd never spoken about it – that John's world has shattered and fallen to pieces with Sherlock's death.  
  
Mycroft _knows_ that Sherlock's death almost destroyed John.  
  
So Mycroft just holds him and silently glues the parts together again, not really fixing, but re-building John's world, piece after piece, day after day.  
  
***  
  
Mycroft keeps secrets from John. It's not something new and most of time John fortunately has no time to think about it further. Or reason to worry. But John knows that the secrets are there and while John thinks that they are (probably) not his business, they are standing between them.  
  
Their relationship _is_ different from what John and Sherlock have shared, so John doesn't feel that he has any right to pester the other man about that. If Mycroft wants to tell him something, he will.  
  
But there is something in Mycroft's gaze, when he thinks that John isn't aware that Mycroft is observing John, that is… strange. Not in a dangerous way, but rather poignant. It's not only in his gaze either, but also in the way he touches John during these times, when they embrace, or how he holds him during the night, almost as if Mycroft is driven by some urgency, as if there won't be a tomorrow anymore.  
  
Not always, but it keeps happening, almost as if Mycroft fears that their time together is drawing to an end and he wants to make the most out of it.  
  
But that is stupid, of course, so John tries to ignore it and just enjoys their time together, which mounts up to a lot in the end and is much more than he had ever thought would happen.  
  
One day, he decides in the end, he will maybe ask Mycroft about his secrets, about the thoughtful glances and the urgency behind the touches and kisses.  
  
One day, when the timing is right.  
  
***  
  
The timing never seems to be right however and at some point, John forgets that he wanted to ask Mycroft, instead just goes along for the ride. And between work and Mycroft, there is not much time for John to worry anyway. He doesn't want to either. He just wants to be with Mycroft, wants to enjoy their time together, the peace and calm it offers him.  
  
The big change, which renders the question unimportant and throws John's world into chaos once more, comes near the end of their second year together, as a development occurs that John had never thought possible.  
  
-.-.-.-


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the last three years, John has a rather difficult time dealing with the newest developments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story covers the events of 'The Empty House' - spoilers for the first series, 'The Empty House', quite a few ACD references, some ACD!canon quotes

**Part 3.**

The big change, which renders the question and all possible worries unimportant, comes near the end of their second year together, when Mycroft calls John and asks him to meet him in 221B Baker Street, since he won't be on time for their appointment. They are supposed to meet for dinner, but Mycroft needs to have a word with Mrs Hudson about the flat, which he still intends to keep, even after all that time.

When John arrives, there is no sign of Mycroft, but since he can see his shadow through the living room window, he opens the door with his key. (while he couldn't stand the thought of living there anymore, he couldn't bear parting with such an integral part of his life completely either, so moving out but keeping the key it was)

Walking up the stairs is much more difficult than it should be. Maybe – thanks to the past two years – easier than it would have been before, but there are still countless memories lurking everywhere, making breathing difficult.

But then John has finally managed it and enters the flat.

Mycroft is indeed standing at the window; face half illuminated by the setting sun. Later, John has to admit, that the setting is perfect for the following developments.

"Hello John. Thank you for coming," Mycroft says, voice soft, yet there is something in his eyes that—

"Mycroft!"

Familiar impatience. Familiar voice.

From behind John.

"I think we had enough of that dramatic set-up, don't you agree, brother?" Then, before John even has the slightest chance to grasp the facts: "Hello John!"

John freezes. Not just in his movement, but even his thoughts and breathing while his emotions take a sudden leap, making his head spin as _that_ voice addresses him directly.

_Can't be Can't be Can't be_

Pretty much on autopilot, John turns around, slowly, breath stuck in his chest, heart hammering, cold hands. Signs of shock. He recognizes the symptoms without that he can do anything against it. Eventually, his eyes fall onto the face that he never thought of ever seeing again and – much to his later embarrassment – he feels his head swirl, his vision blur and then... nothing.

When consciousness returns, John finds himself lying on the couch in 221B Baker Street, with a familiar face hovering above him, blue gaze strangely worried.

Sherlock!

"John! Are you all right? I told you that was a bad idea!" Sherlock says, the latter not to John, but to the man who currently occupies the armchair to the right of John - Mycroft. "I owe you a thousand apologies, John. I had no idea that you would be so affected."

"You are alive..." John whispers, barely noticing Sherlock's apology. He reaches out, carefully, not quite touching Sherlock's cheek, afraid, that the other man may dissolve any moment, like a hallucination.

"Perfect deduction," Sherlock says and cracks a smile. The words are so painfully familiar, to hear them now – and not just in his mind – is just like a dream. For a moment John has to close his eyes as his feelings threaten to overwhelm him. "I'm sorry for having given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance," Sherlock says, voice sincere.

"How can you be alive?!" The question is confused, sounds, despite the very few words, almost disjointed. "I saw you fall!" John should know. It is an image that has burned itself into his mind and has haunted him for the past years! That and the image of Sherlock lying in the street, bloodied, beaten, the perfect image of a broken doll. "You were _dead_! I checked it myself…"

"Appearances can be deceiving. You know how I work," Sherlock says in clear discomfort. Then: "I'm really sorry, John! I didn't want to put you through this, but I had no choice. I needed to disappear!"

John shakes his head and sits up, tries unsuccessfully to clear his mind, to decide what to do now, how to react, what to say, even what to _feel_. But for the first time in his life, he is at a complete loss, his emotions one big, jumbled mess.

His eyes fall once more onto Mycroft, who regards them with the same blank expression he – so John has learned during the last few years – wears when he doesn't want to disclose something. Or when he doesn't want to show his emotions. And suddenly John understands, not just the current expression, but the continuous feeling that Mycroft kept secrets from him.

In the end, it is that knowledge he leaps on, because the rest is too huge to deal with at the moment, too fantastic for his mind to really comprehend. He feels a bit like an Alice who accidentally ended up in a very bizarre version of Wonderland.

So, Mycroft and his secrets it has to be for now.

"You knew," John says and there's amazement and confusion and even some resentment in his voice when he's addressing Mycroft. "You knew that Sherlock was still alive." It is not a question, because John is absolutely, 100% sure about that. "You knew, yet you let me believe that he was dead? For three years?" He can see a brief flash of hurt crossing Mycroft's features; can see a special kind of confusion on Sherlock's face as he follows the exchange between his brother and John.

"Of course he knew. I needed his help," Sherlock says, which, right now, couldn't be any less helpful.

"I couldn't tell you. It was to keep him safe, John," Mycroft says and John, who has spent the last over two years learning to _know_ Mycroft, can hear and read every nuance in his voice, including the silent appeal for understanding.

Right now, John can't give Mycroft what he wants. He is asking for too much. "Safe from me?" It is an unfair question - just as his entire reaction, seeing that he _knows_ how Sherlock works and that Sherlock is back and alive and... - but John can't help himself.

They lied to him, both of them, pushed him aside for whatever, after everything John did for them! They let him knowingly suffer through that nightmare! And regardless of his feelings for… either of them, this hurts. More than John will ever be able to say.

"We could not take the risk of anyone finding out that I survived, John. You may have given it away. If only out of relief," Sherlock says and there is something new in his voice as well, not quite Mycroft's plea for understanding, but maybe a real attempt to explain himself, something Sherlock usually doesn't bother with. It doesn't go over too well either, not in the maelstrom of emotions the two of them have awoken within John. There's relief and anger and fear and being-torn-apart by… _everything_ until John feels in real danger of suffocating.

"You should try to calm down, John." Mycroft sounds worried. John glares at him.

"Excuse me for being - and acting - like one of those boring, normal human beings who can't function like an automaton and switch off their emotions whenever it pleases them! Why?" he asks then, no one in particular. It's a question he can't put into words or fill with substance either, because it is too enormous. Just like the entire situation with Sherlock here, standing in front of John, a bit thinner and paler than in his memories, but still there and, thank-god, _alive_.

And Mycroft, the one who has been there for John, who had become a nuisance until John had not only reacted, but acted and...

Both of them looking at him, waiting, expectantly, but for what John has no idea.

Mycroft, his typical stoic self, at least on the outside, and…

God!

 _Sherlock_!

Universes are clashing and then John's own small world starts to break apart around him, no longer just unravelling at the edges as it has done since that day in front of St Barts, with John hoping against all hope that the worst hadn't come to pass, but the most inner core, which John had barely managed to hold together for the past three years. It leaves him breathless and makes him feel betrayed and alone.

John feels like in a dream - one of those nightmares disguised in something more pleasant, like sun and blue sky and the smell of a fresh case in the air until it turns black and bleak and hopeless – when he rises to his feet.

"John," almost in unison.

He forces himself to ignore the two of them as he crosses the room and fetches his jacket, feeling a bit in trance. "Don't," he says, his tone a warning, when Mycroft, who is suddenly near the door, makes a move to touch him. He doesn't think that he can bear it. Not now. Fortunately, Mycroft accepts and withdraws, lets John pass, lets the foolish, _stupid_ sidekick be on his way.

And it _hurts_!

John comes to a stop a last time before he reaches the stairs. "Why?" he asks Mycroft. "Was it out of pity?"

Mycroft looks almost shocked, then shakes his head. "Of course not."

John's laugh is bitter and the seventeen steps down to the front door of 221B Baker Street take forever to walk down.

***

Lestrade doesn't seem really surprised when John arrives at the station, despite that their contact has been rather sporadic during the last three years, rarely more than a fast lunch or an evening in the pub every other month.

"Did you know that he survived?" John asks Lestrade, his voice rough. He probably also looks like the rather uncomfortable, mostly sleepless night that he spent on Harry's sofa. John doesn't get drunk, never – thanks to Harry, but by God, last night he had wished that he could just get into the next pub and drink himself into oblivion. As it was, he was in for a night filled with tossing around, the sleepless pattern only interrupted by short nightmares, of wars, old and new, and of fire and feathers and ice, trying to smother him.

Visiting Gregory Lestrade was the next logical conclusion. John needs to know if everybody knew, if maybe he was the only one left out in the cold. Relief floods him when the DI shakes his head.

"Gave me quite the heart attack when he suddenly stood in front of my desk," Lestrade admits. He is observing John intently. "It is good that he is back, isn't it? We need him. Not that I would willingly admit it in front of him, but you get the drift, Doctor," Lestrade says with a small laugh.

At least somebody who wasn't in on the strange game that was being played on John.

"John," he offers in return. He should have done it long ago already, but for some reason, the timing has never been right – as so very often.

(would Mycroft have told John the truth if the timing had been better and John would have confronted him about his strange behaviour?)

Lestrade smiles. "My pleasure, John. Gregory. Greg."

They end up in a pub after that, having lunch and a pint to toast to their newfound... closeness, friendship, whatever one wants to call it.

It's nice and pleasant, even if it doesn't allow for John to forget even for one single moment what happened. When his mobile vibrates again in his pocket, he decides that it may be time to stop ignoring and gets it out.

He discovers that he missed something like 20 texts and at least a dozen calls since he has left 221B Baker Street yesterday evening, alternately from Sherlock and Mycroft. John doesn't read the texts, just deletes the entire list. He is not quite done when his phone vibrates again.

"You are a very popular man today," Gregory says, smirking.

John grimaces.

_If you don't react in some way, I will have to find you and make sure that you are well. MH_

followed right away by a second message:

_And: no pity. We don't act on such petty emotions, as you should know. Mycroft Holmes_

Not I, but _we_ , even if the second text seems more like an afterthought. Almost as if Mycroft has nearly forgotten that there was an issue that was maybe important to John and should be addressed. Yet, the _we_ drives the problem home much deeper. Not helpful at all. Then again, the two of them are not really trying to be helpful.

John shakes his head, then types

_Don't. I'm fine. Just need time. JW_

ignoring the rest. Mycroft and what happened is one of the many things that John doesn't want to deal with. Certainly not now.

He has just hit send, when the vibrating sound is back.

_Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient come anyway. Could be dangerous. SH_

John can't help himself but smile at the slightly condensed version of their first text exchange. But, instead of answering, he switches off his phone and puts it away.

"They'll be the death of me," he tells Lestrade before ordering a coffee.

And once he doesn't feel so betrayed and hurt anymore, he will probably also be able to admit – quite happily even – that there are worse ways to die.

***

In the end, it is Sherlock, not Mycroft who catches up with John. It could have been either. They both know him well enough to track him down eventually and both are very impatient when they don't get what they want when they want it.

Sherlock catches John unaware, just when he is about to return to Harry late afternoon the same day. He is waiting for John just outside the metro, standing in the shadow between two narrow houses, quite invisible, making John honestly (and highly embarrassingly so) jump when he suddenly steps into view.

John is pretty sure that his heart skips a few beats (which it probably would have done anyway upon seeing Sherlock, but this is not something you usually admit, certainly not in such a situation). "Give me a heart attack, will you! What are you doing here anyway? How did you find me?" John asks. For a very brief moment he thinks about just walking on, but then can't bring himself to do it. This is Sherlock after all and now that he has him back, John wants nothing more than to be at his side, despite everything that happened.

Sherlock smiles at his words and it is such a typical Sherlock-smile, not the one reserved for the public, but the real one, which he only ever seems to show to John, that John's heart and stomach clench. "I am not going to bore you with the tedious details, but—"

"Mycroft."

"If you continue this way, I soon won't be able to amaze you anymore. Perfect deduction, Doctor."

"Don't worry. Your unexpected return from the dead is something that will probably amaze me for a long time to come," John says.

"Everybody should know a magic trick or two," Sherlock answers and John recognizes it for the forced non-joke it is meant to be. They are both here; thrown in a situation they are clearly incapable of dealing with, yet they are still trying. John's smile feels just as forced as Sherlock's joke.

"So, would you have preferred if I had stayed dead?" Sherlock Holmes asks, voice void of emotions, gaze unreadable.

For a second, John can only stare at Sherlock, then: "God, no! Of course not! I'm... very glad that you're still alive!" A clear understatement.

"Really? You did hide it very well." Sherlock shrugs, but there is a note of... something in his voice, maybe apprehension. He certainly sounds a bit putt off. "I wanted to send you a letter, a text... whatever, to let you know that I was fine. But I couldn't. It would have been too dangerous. I needed to be believed dead, no matter the consequences."

John shakes his head, forces himself to take a deep breath and to stay calm. This is Sherlock after all, brilliant and frustrating and amazing, all at once. He also happens to be the man John loves, frustrating as it may be occasionally. "You broke my heart, Sherlock. I don't expect for you to understand it," he cuts off the other man before he can interrupt John, "but you broke my heart. There wasn't an hour when I did not miss you, nor did I ever stop loving you. _Never_."

"And Mycroft?"

John startles. "He told you?" Maybe John shouldn't be that surprised.

"Of course he did. Not that it was necessary. Your reaction to him made it quite obvious." Sherlock's expression is blank, absolutely unreadable, even for John.

John laughs. It is not a happy sound. "You were _gone_ , Sherlock. From my life. You left me behind and made me believe that you were dead. I don't think that you can expect anything from me, least of all an apology for what happened with Mycroft. I had no idea that you were still alive."

"I didn't say that I expect an apology, John," Sherlock says. "There is no reason for you to apologize." He seems to mean it, too. "Besides, I asked Mycroft to check on you."

" _You_ sent him after me?"

Sherlock nods. "I was worried and wanted to make sure that you are fine. Though I do have to admit that I didn't expect for my brother to take such a keen interest in your well-being."

Still the same blank voice and the same blank expression. Nothing to read from it in any way. It's rather frustrating.

"I also told him that I love you and that nothing would change that," John still says. Not in defence, but he wants for Sherlock to know that as well. And it is nothing but the truth.

Sherlock nods. "He told me that as well."

John accepts the statement with a nod. "When did he tell you?"

"After you left yesterday. We had a rather interesting conversation. In fact, I think it is safe to say that we haven't talked that much in years."

John briefly wonders how that talk might have gone, how Sherlock may have reacted, but then pushes the thought aside as something that he doesn't want to know. Such a talk between the Holmes brothers is probably not something John ever wants to witness.

For a moment, there is only silence, as if the rest of the world suddenly went quiet, to give them space and some time alone. Their gaze is locked and John sees the strange shimmer within Sherlock's blue eyes, expressing what he would never say aloud. Not because he doesn't feel it, but because he rarely listens to his own emotions and even more rarely displays them (and why should he? They are just a distraction to him after all).

Finally, Sherlock cuts through the weird atmosphere that has settled between them. "How about dinner? I can bring you up to date then. If you want, that is. You want that, right?"

And the whirlwind of energy is back, grabbing John and carrying him along. John finds himself nodding, accepts the non-talk, non-solution it is, which – at least for now – works fine for both of them.

Sherlock seems to relax ever so slightly. "We still have enough time and there's a wonderful Italian around the next corner!"

***

In the end, the dinner is left forgotten on the table between them. Pasta and pizza, cold, untouched and uninteresting when Sherlock ends his talk with a, "As you can see, I had to vanish, John. There was no other choice, not if I wanted to end it for good."

"Oh, Sherlock," John says, closing his eyes for a moment. Sherlock is watching him intently when he opens them again. "I would have helped you! Do you really think me that useless and untrustworthy?" John asks, but there is no harshness or resentment in his voice, merely a nuance of resignation. He knows that Sherlock doesn't think like him - or like most people. John _knows_. And most of time, he can deal with it quite well. Maybe not this time, but then, it doesn't happen all that often that your partner and lover leaves you behind while he pretends to be dead for a few years. Never mind the other issue with the brother.

Seeing all that, John would go so far as to say that he is dealing quite well indeed. All things considered at least.

Sherlock taps with his long fingers on the table, impatient as always. "Don't be stupid, John! If I thought you either, I probably would have encouraged you to come along and to get yourself killed! One of the reasons I went away without a word was because you would have insisted on being an idiot and helping me, endangering your own life in the process – quite unnecessarily, seeing that they only want to see me dead."

That was quite a backhanded compliment. At least John decides to take it as that, even if he doesn't agree. But they can – and will, if Sherlock likes it or not – talk about the whole issue. Later. Now is not the right time and seeing that John waited (without knowing it) for the last three years already, a little more patience won't hurt – as long as Sherlock is here as well. "Is it done now?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "But almost."

"So... should you be here then? Walking around London?"

Sherlock shrugs, doesn't say anything more and John understands. It doesn't make the pain go away, the feeling of betrayal and abandonment, but he understands and sees the risks that Sherlock took to be here now, with John.

"Can I help you in any way?" he asks, voice hesitant. Seeing Sherlock's reaction to John's possible help last time, it is obviously a very dangerous question. And if there's one thing that John doesn't want, it is taking the risk of losing Sherlock again, no matter what stands between them now and how they are going to solve it.

Seeing John's worry, Sherlock's next question does surprise him. "You'll come with me tonight?" Sherlock asks and he doesn't sound as certain anymore either. Maybe John's world isn't the only one in constant danger of being broken apart after all.

"To finish Moriarty's organization once and for all?"

Sherlock nods. "The last loose end. After that, it will finally be over and Moriarty's shadow will be destroyed. I want for you to be there when that happens, to witness the end. You are my personal blogger after all and should have a front-row seat," Sherlock says, smiling _that_ smile again.

John finds himself nodding, relief flooding through him, making it nearly impossible for him to find the right words. Fortunately, it isn't necessary either. Not between them. "I will come with you. When you like and where you like," he just says in the end.

Sherlock laughs softly. He sounds relieved. "I thought so. What do you know about Ronald Adair? You have heard of the events, I assume?"

John nods. "Of course. It was impossible to avoid the news, seeing how they all jumped on his murder. I spent some time looking into it. Why?"

"You looked into it?" Sherlock sounds amazed. "Mycroft didn't mention that."

"He probably didn't know," John says, shrugging. "It's not as if I shared all my activities with him. I do have something of a life on my own, you know? Besides, I only got started."

Sherlock seems to process the statement for a moment, then shakes his head. "We should have known." Again this _we_. "Did you discover anything of interest?"

John shakes his head. "Not really. He was shot through the window, probably from the tower block across the street. The two apartments facing the side of his bedroom are both empty. But there were no witnesses and, according to the police, no other evidence. Could have been anyone with some talent in the field."

"No. Not anyone," Sherlock says. "The block is rather far away, across a crowded street. It would take a very good shot with a steady aim and practise. On the top of my head, I can only think of two people currently residing in London, who should be able to do that. One of them would be you." When John starts to protest, Sherlock shakes his head. "You should give yourself some credit, John. Don't forget that I have seen your work. We both know that you would be able to do something like that – if you wanted. But don't worry. You are not my suspect," Sherlock adds, grinning.

"Well, that's certainly a relief! And I can confirm that I haven't changed my profession yet. But if I am not your suspect, who is the second one?" John asks.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, the - since Moriarty's death - most dangerous criminal in London."

John shakes his head. "I've never heard of him."

"I'm not surprised. He knows how to cover his tracks. He was in the army, probably before your time, and was obliged to retire from it quite some time ago already. It has never been made public but there was some scandal. My sources say that he probably enjoyed aspects of his work a bit too much. Colonel Moran is also a self-published author, a devoted sportsman and a highly skilled shot. Moreover, he's also the one who tried to kill me after I rid the world of Moriarty and so the reason I had to vanish."

"And he is the one we are after now?"

Sherlock nods, relaxing very slightly. "Indeed he is."

"But there is nothing that connects him to Ronald Aldair. At least I haven't heard of anything."

"Maybe not. But if I am not completely mistaken, we should be able to link him to the attempted murder of yours truly."

"Your attempted murder?"

Sherlock nods, then leans back in his chair, looking very satisfied with the world and himself.

His mood swings are one of the things that will never cease to surprise John. Sherlock is the only human being he knows who can live through every possible emotion in a mere five minutes – and then start all over again. And that without that most people will even realize what is happening with him.

***

When John and Sherlock walk down the street not even an hour later, it is almost like old times, as if the past three years have never happened, as if John's world hasn't been built-up and destroyed over and over again by the two brothers.

But for all the familiarity of the moment and the relief, there is a painful distance between them, which not even John with the past three years of intense practice can ignore. Sherlock keeps to himself (and not really in an 'I'm-busy-with-a-case-don't-disturb-me' way) and John withdraws, too, if for entirely different reasons (probably).

In many ways, it's almost like in the beginning, when John only knew the basics about the other man while Sherlock seemed to know everything about him already. Then they managed to close the distance between them in record time. John isn't so sure if they will manage the same now.

 

***

"Here? Really?" Doubtful, John looks at the entrance. It's the backdoor, but even so he recognizes Camden House, the black spot in the neighborhood, just opposite 221B Baker Street.

"Here," Sherlock confirms and John follows him up the old, creaking wooden stairs. The steps are littered with trash right and left, leaving only a small path in the middle. The house is smelly and quite unpleasant, but Sherlock is positively bouncing when they reach the first floor and he almost drags John to the dirty window in the abandoned room. Not directly to the front where they may have been visible from the street, but the side. "Look at that, John!" Sherlock says, voice vibrating with energy as he points outside the window. John follows his direction and finds himself looking straight into the living room of 221B Baker Street.

John squints in the darkness, tries to make out just what he is seeing there, then utters a confused "Huh?" as his eyes have finally adjusted to the light and he can see... Sherlock! The form is slightly obstructed by the curtains, but it is quite obviously him, sitting in his armchair, reading.

If John wasn't so certain that Sherlock is here, standing so close to John that he can actually feel Sherlock's breath against his cheek, John would have sworn that it was him in their flat.

"That's... wow! Amazing! How did you do that? What is it made of?"

"It's magnificent, isn't it?" Sherlock asks, clearly happy with John's reaction. "It got delivered this morning. Too bad that it—"

He stops in mid-sentence when they hear the door opening with an unpleasant screeching sound. Front door, apparently, because the backdoor was much more silent when they entered. John feels his heart skip a beat as excitement rises in his chest.

Danger.

Feeling alive.

Being here.

_With Sherlock._

He has to admit that right now, his life is pretty much perfect, despite the looming danger and all the other things.

Sherlock's blue eyes are gleaming in the faint light of the streetlamp that reaches barely beyond the windowsill, reflecting the same excitement that John feels. They step beyond what was probably a cupboard at some point, hiding in its shadow.

The steps grow louder, their visitor clearly expecting to be alone.

John quietly reaches for his pistol. He has just taken hold of it and released the safety when a forceful push lets the door crash against the wall.

They wait silently, watching the man moving towards the window, then unpacking something John hadn't been aware he had carried. A rifle! Before John even has a chance to identify the model, the man has positioned himself at the window. The rough, concentrated face is illuminated by the meager light of the streetlamp, giving it an almost ghostly appearance.

The resounding shot nearly causes John's heart to stop, despite that John knows that it isn't Sherlock, but just some puppet/robot/whatever that is sitting there, probably sporting a nice hole in its head now. Still, in the first moment it is a bit of a shock. Then, fortunately, before he can think about that further, John finds himself at Sherlock’s side, jumping over the cupboard and onto the assailant, trying to disarm him and to put him out of commission.

It’s more difficult than it looks. The man is stronger than John gave him credit for and he finds himself kicked aside, crashing into the cupboard, which breaks apart and almost buries John under it. He manages to roll away before that can happen. But before John can recover from that attack and join the fight again, Moriarty's henchman sizes Sherlock and throws him across the room as if Sherlock is nothing more than a doll.

John's throat constricts as the worst possible outcomes play themselves out in front of his inner eye.

Not again!

He takes a deep breath, forces himself to concentrate on the matter at hand, to help Sherlock and so to make sure that his worst fears won't come to pass. Before the feisty man can go after Sherlock again, John has finally managed to come back to his feet and holds his gun trained on him. "Don't," he says, voice as calm as he suddenly feels.

This here he knows.

"Don't go anywhere near him or I will shoot."

And here and now, John is wiling to kill. Maybe it would even be for the best. Ridding the world of the scum once and for all.

Apparently, Sherlock's almost-murderer realizes John's firm intention and he freezes. His eyes are filled with hate as he glares at John.

Sherlock struggles to his feet and joins John across the room. "Don't, John," he says after a moment of strained silence, voice soft. "It would only end in an inquiry, which would be rather inconvenient. He is not worth it. Listen, the police are here already. Lestrade will take over."

It is a world turned upside down. Isn't John supposed to be the voice of reason when it comes to such things? Maybe the last few days were really taking their toll on him. John shakes his head, then lets the gun sink.

"You just threatened me with a gun! Since when are civilians allowed to carry around guns? That will have consequences!"

"Says the one with the rifle who just tried to kill me," Sherlock says, voice cold, shutting up the other man effectively. Sherlock takes John's gun and puts it away, probably a wise move, at least for the time being. "John, meet Colonel Sebastian Moran. The sad remnant of Moriarty's once formidable force. Not that you would think so now. Colonel Moran, meet Dr Watson, my... personal blogger," he says, smirking. "You have probably read his blog. Most people do. But, as you—"

Loud, fast approaching footsteps interrupt Sherlock. Lestrade enters, followed by Donovan and three policemen.

***

"And once again, Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to examining those interesting little problems, which the complex life of London so plentifully presents."

John looks at him, confused.

Sherlock shakes his head. "Just thought I'd try something new," he says and there's a small grin playing around his features, making his eyes light up playfully.

John shakes his head, feeling a bit dazed, yet at the same time as alive as he hasn't done anymore in years. "So it's over now?"

Sherlock shrugs. He gives the impression of a man being caught between satisfaction and regret, as if he will miss being the main focus of a major crime organization. "For now at least," Sherlock finally says. "There will be others. Though, I do have to admit that it was a bit anti-climatic..."

He probably _will_ miss it.

John makes a face. "Why? Because nobody died properly? Apart from Moriarty? Wasn't nearly dying enough? Or pretending to be dead?" John says and while he knows where the force behind the words comes from, he is still a bit shocked by himself as the emotional roller coaster from the last few hours apparently finally catches up with him. "I am so sorry!" he adds right away. "It's just.... I missed you so bloody much," it bursts suddenly from John, unplanned, certainly, but definitely heartfelt and John couldn't care less about Lestrade who is just ushering his people out, or whoever else could be there, witnessing the scene.

Sherlock looks at John curiously, apparently waiting for him to continue, maybe sensing that John isn't done yet. Fortunately, there are indeed a few more things that John wants to say, so there is no danger of awkward silence. "Listen, Sherlock. I understand why you did that, but if you ever just vanish again and put me through something like that once more, I will personally come after you and finish the job." He may adore and love the other man, but even John has his limits. Apparently even when it comes to one Sherlock Holmes, resident genius and the only consulting detective in existence.

"Aren't you supposed to save lives? I faintly remember that this is what doctors do," Sherlock asks and there's the slight smirk on his lips, which John loves so bloody much that he feels his throat constricting.

John doesn't even realize that his hand has reached out, fisting in Sherlock's coat, almost as if he is afraid that Sherlock will vanish again if he doesn't hold him in place. Not that there seems to be much of a danger at the moment. Sherlock seems happy enough to stick around, standing so close to John that they are almost touching. "I do make exceptions now and then. I am also a soldier after all."

"You, my dear Doctor, can be a very formidable opponent as we all know," Sherlock says and the unexpected softness in his eyes lets John's world spin as it realigns itself once more. "I will try not to end up on the wrong side of your gun," Sherlock ends and there is the smile again, which reaches into his eyes and lights them up in that magnificently way.

"You'd better! You almost killed me," John admits, voice not quite that steady anymore. But before he can lose it entirely, words don't matter anymore, because Sherlock's arms are around John, pressing him close against his too thin body, just holding him for a moment. Unconsciously, John mirrors the action, trying to press them even closer together.

For the longest time they are just standing there, embracing each other as if there won't be a tomorrow anymore, almost as if not only John, but Sherlock is afraid as well that one of them might just vanish if they stop touching.

The following kiss is tender, not fuelled by the overwhelming passion John has come to associate with Sherlock, but careful, claiming, reassuring.

John finds himself happily falling further into the burning abyss.

"Home?" Sherlock asks once they separate.

John nods. "Definitely," he says and smiles, thinking that _Home_ (and there is only one home he has, the only place where he cared to stay that long and can imagine to stay even longer) has never sounded more alluring.

They are not touching when they leave the building, but they are walking close enough that their hands brush against each other every other step when they cross the street. It's a small contact, which John cherishes and for the moment he can't really bring himself to care about Mycroft, what happened or if he is there and witnessing this.

He and Mycroft will have to talk – soon – even if John has no idea what to say or even what to do. It's difficult, because even here and now, being back with Sherlock, which feels _perfect_ and just the way it should, his thoughts are turning to the older Holmes, making his heart beat a tiny bit faster.

**\- ~ The End ~ -**


End file.
